


We Do Not Call Her Name

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Self-Harm, also a moment of cute hair-washing, but wow this is angsty as hell so, lots of angry vriska, no really like, vriska slams her fist into a wall???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Vriska Serket, and you have just split your knuckles open on an unforgiving brick wall. </p><p>There’s a girl named Kanaya Maryam in your life again.</p><p>And you hate her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Do Not Call Her Name

**Author's Note:**

> WOW okay I'm not kidding you when I say this is angsty as FUCK. So if you are in any way triggered by blood or really intense sadstuck you might want to turn back now.
> 
> If you're still here, I've gotta say I'm pretty proud of this one. Happy reading.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you have just split your knuckles open on an unforgiving brick wall, your mobile computer dropping unceremoniously to the floor. And you think that it does not hurt nearly as much as something else.

You’re staring at the bruises and the seeping cerulean blood and it satisfies you; the pain that makes you bite down on your own arm to keep from crying out again is lovely, lovely and sweet.

You are an idiot. You hate yourself, and you have said this before but you never really quite understood the full concept of hating yourself until now, when you’re watching bits of your own flesh hang where they’re not supposed to. You loathe yourself so utterly and completely it sends a physical wave of new pain through you.

There’s a girl named Kanaya Maryam in your life again.

And you hate her.

You don’t know what you thought would happen, when you showed back up, when your miraculous return took place and you came back with your eyes open and your hands twisting nervously. You don’t know what you expected her to do, seeing as the last time you saw her, she punched you in the face. Maybe you had deluded yourself into thinking she still cared.

Whatever you thought, you were wrong.

You went to look for her first, of course; Terezi might have greeted you with some warmth, but the other trolls mostly dislike you and she has the strongest pull to you, eight even number threes preluded an arrow pointing backwards, and maybe you are ashamed of it, but in any case, you went to look for her first.

And you found her. You found her in a library, hunched over a thick tome, with a girl you recognized as the Lalonde human close to her. Very close. Close being embodied in Rose’s hand on your moirail’s (former moirail’s, you suppose) shoulder, leaning over her to look at the same book, her ridiculous human chest touching Kanaya’s back, and you feel like you are going to throw up as you remember Kanaya looking back at Rose, her expression the kind of sweet she used to use with you.

You cleared your throat to announce your presence.

She looked up, and you saw a thousand things in those wide eyes of hers; surprise, anger, hurt, disbelief, denial…and that was a moment, a pinnacle moment, when you thought everything was going to change as you didn’t breathe and you waited for her reaction.

And Kanaya had shook her head, her eyes narrowing, and went back to the book, without a word to you.

You remember it again and without even thinking you ram your fist into the wall at your side, and then you are forced to sink your teeth into your arm to capture the scream it wrangles out of you. You feel tears welling up in your eyes, but you do not cry, so you wipe them away, staining your knuckles even bluer. Somehow, you have slumped down into a crumpled sitting position against this wall bearing bits of your skin, and the roughness against your back reminds you of how terribly grounded you are.

You wish you were dead. Not dream-bubble dead, not dream-self dead, not god-tier, but legitimately, permanently dead. The kind of dead where anyone in the world can throw themselves across your chest and press their lips to yours and you will remain limp, blissfully unknowing and able to sleep. Because you are so tired. You are so, so tired, and you just want it all to stop.

Vaguely, you become aware of quick, light footsteps, and you cower against the wall in the dark as you hope beyond hope beyond hope whoever it is will not notice you. But the second the figure rounds the corner you know it’s pointless to even bother with cowering, because even if there wasn’t only one person on this meteor with luminescent, rainbow-drinker skin, you recognize those footsteps. You remember the day she showed you the boots that make them, her favorite shade of dark green, and the smile that split her face when you complimented their design. You remember only all too well, and there are those goddamned tears again, but you don’t risk the movement necessary to wipe them from your eyes.

She speaks your name with a surprised, angry tone; obviously she didn’t expect to find you down here, and you understand that if she did, this is not the way she would have come.

You don’t respond. You bow your head and let your wild tangle of black hair obscure your face, so you don’t have to look at her. You hope she will pass and leave you alone, leave you to consider how best to quit for good.

You should realize, though, that’s not her nature. She kneels down next to you, and you turn your face away, your hands conspicuously dripping on your dark-jeaned knees. She takes your hands in hers, and both the pain and the softness of her skin makes your teeth grit in anger behind your hair. “Vriska,” she says again, softly, and you say nothing to her, because you don’t trust your voice. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, what else is new?” You let out a sob-laugh that just ends up sounding pathetic. “Look, leave me alone, okay?” “Get up.” Blithely, you do so, confused by the throbbing pain in your hands and your headache and her presence. “Leave me alone,” you mutter again, and you think, from the glance you sneak at her between matted chunks of your own hair, that she’s going to slap you in the face. She controls herself, however.

“Give me your wrist,” she says, and when you hold it out, limp, she begins to lead you down unfamiliar corridors, those boots clicking and clacking against the floor.

You say nothing. There is nothing to say.

She leads you to her respiteblock. You can tell it’s hers immediately, from the few plants growing in pots around the corners and the piles and piles of fabric she’s been sewing with. But you don’t stay here; she takes you into the adjoining room, which features an ablution basin, and she puts you in it. “Come on,” she says, her genteel voice just the way you remember it; kind and soft, but with the command clear behind it. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, and that’s when you start to cry.

She helps you off with your clothes, and you barely notice, your eyes are so blurred and blued with your tears, and runs water in the basin. Your knuckles sting when she carefully lowers them in the water to clean the wounds, but you just pull your knees up into your chest and you put your forehead on the plateau it creates.

Your sobs shudder out and you run out of tears to cry as she is picking up a bottle of hair cleaner, pouring a generous amount into her palms and beginning the arduous process of washing and untangling your hair. You stare straight ahead, your eyes empty, as you feel her fingers working, pulling on your hair, stroking over your scalp in a tender way that makes you want to break down again. You are embarrassed that she is bathing you, and you are embarrassed of how tired you are and how ugly your hands are now. You do not know what to say to her, and she seems content with silence, so you let her be.

When she is through with your hair, she reaches to her right side for a cup, which she uses to scoop up water. “Close your eyes,” she instructs, and you do so as you feel her upturn the cup, feel the water run down your hair, finding its way to the grooves of your eyelashes, the corners of your swollen eyes, dripping off your nose and onto the knees you keep tight to your chest as you feel the water run off you, only to be replenished. She turns the cup over your head six times to remove the cleaner from your hair, and then she stands up, her joints audibly popping. You wince at the sound, and wait until the basin has drained and she has given you a covercloth to dry yourself with. Once you have secured it under your arms, feeling less exposed, she tells you to sit at the edge of the basin. “I have to bandage your hands,” she tells you, and then she does so, and all this time you have not looked at her, because you have not wanted to see the disappointed expression on her face, the purse of her lips and her large, reproachful eyes.

You hope she hates you. You hope she hates you so thoroughly you can begin to hate her a fraction as much.

You remain stoic through the pain of having your wounds disinfected and wrapped, until your hands are so stiff with bandages you can barely move your fingers. When it hurts, you are glad for it. You hope she enjoys hurting you, so you can forget just how deeply she’s done it. Leaving trenches not on your skin, but on your mind. Yes, you hope she likes the one hiss of discomfort that escapes you.

When she is finished, she sits back on her heels and looks straight into your eyes. You try to avert your gaze, but she puts one hand on your chin and forces you to look at her, her eyes kind and worried instead of the hard and angry you are hoping to find. Because really, this hurts more than that would. Much more.

“It fucking hurts,” you tell her.

“It’s your own fault,” she tells you.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says, and she gets up, goes to her respiteblock. You hear rustling, and then she comes back to you and tosses a white dress in your direction.

You recognize it. “You brought…?”

“I didn’t bring it,” she says, shortly. “I remade it.”

“Why?” Your voice is soft, husky. You need to clear your throat, but you don’t want to disturb the unsteady bile in your stomach.

“Because,” she says, averting her eyes. “I didn’t want to miss you anymore. For some crazy reason, I thought it might help.”

You say nothing to this, turning your back to her and donning the dress without a word. She smiles a little sadly when she sees how perfectly it fits.

“I don’t hate you,” you say, your eyes cast down at the floor, which is clean, cleaner than yours would be if you had a home here, which you are quickly determining you do not.

“I know that too,” she says to you. She doesn’t have a recuperacoon. In its place is a strange structure you only recognize from your brief insights into human respiteblocks, “bedrooms,” with fluffy fabric things they lay their heads on.

She sees you looking at it. “It’s not as messy,” she says, her voice soft and sad. “And it’s softer. I, um…Rose gave it to me.”

Rose. The name makes your heart seize up, your throat constrict, and your teeth grit in a snarl that you wish you could keep down, because she sees it and she is intelligent, she must realize what it means.

You realize you left your mobile computer down in some dark corridor, chat application minimized, screen probably cracked or shattered by the force of you throwing it.

“Darling Rose,” you manage between your teeth, your damp hair flinging itself down your back as you spin around abruptly to face Kanaya. “Sweet, darling Rose, who spirited you away.”

“Stop it,” she says, unmoving, her eyes at the floor, but you are angry, so angry, and once you have started you cannot seem to end.

“Lovely Rose! Sweet Rose! Rose Lalonde, with her books and cleverness and beautiful hair, pixie nose, good flesh lumps! Rose, with her smile, her laugh, and you just fucking ate it right the hell up, didn’t you?”

“Stop it, Vriska,” Kanaya says, a tone of warning creeping into her voice. “Bet you fell for her hard, didn’t you, you fucking bloodsucker?” You’re stepping closer to her now, your lips curved in a feral grin. “She just batted those weak little eyelashes and you were _so gone.”_

“I said, stop it.”

“Heard she’s a _sensational_ lay. Get it yet, Kan, or are you too much of a lousy goddamn coward to go and _take what you want?”_

You’ve struck a nerve, and you’re so close to her now she’s able to whip out her hand and slap you, smack you right in the face. The force of the blow turns your head to the side, and you almost feel your think pan rattle.

“You shut up,” Kanaya says, her voice and her frame trembling with her rage. “You shut up, Vriska Serket, because you don’t get to die and then prance on back, tossing your hair and telling me what I feel.”

“Don’t I?”

“Shut up!” she screams, really shrieks, and it surprises you so much you fall silent, as if struck dumb. “Just shut up! God, I can’t believe I was ever flushed for such a self-serving bitch!”

You stagger back, as if you’ve been hit. “What?” you say, and you intend to yell the word, but it comes out as a tiny, broken whisper of a word. “You…”

“Yes, okay?” Her eyes are wild, her hair handing on end, and for the first time in your life you are scared of her. “Jesus, and you were so fucking oblivious!” She takes on a high, cruel, mocking tone. _“I would have backed off Tavros if I knew you wanted him! I’m Vriska Serket, and nothing in the world is my fault!_ God, you’re so full of it! You always have been, and I’ve just given up trying to fix you. You’re a bitch, Vriska, and you don’t care what you do to anyone. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you.”

She starts to turn away, to go where you don’t know, and panic overtakes you, and with panic comes instinct, and stupidity. You seize the base of her horns and kiss her.

It’s a rough kiss, desperate, and you think for one tiny moment she might relent, kiss you back, slip her hands around your waist and maybe everything will be okay.

But then she’s pushing you back by the shoulders, her hand flying to her mouth, something broken in her eyes, which she immediately directs to the floor, instead of at you. “You should leave now,” she says, stalking over and holding open the door.

And what can you do?

You leave.

She tasted like sunlight and hope.

You throw it all up once you’re out of earshot.

XXX

arachnidsGrip [AG] started trolling tentacleTherapist [TT]

AG: Congratul8tions.  
TT: I can deduce what you are referring to. I suppose this is about the recent reddening of my relationship with Miss Maryam.  
AG: Hit the nail on the fucking head.  
AG: Guess wh8t.  
TT: I couldn’t presume to guess. Inform me of what, dear Vriska.  
AG: D8n’t b8 godd8mn condesc8nding.

arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT]

arachnidsGrip [AG] started trolling tentacleTherapist [TT]

AG: She was red for me first.  
TT: Oh, shut up.

tentacleTherapist [TT] blocked arachnidsGrip [AG]

  


**Author's Note:**

> So there we go. Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Also, I swear to fuckin' whoever I spent like half an hour trying to figure out how to html the pesterlogs, got it all done, only to find it didn't post. So, fuck it. I'd just like you to know I made an effort.


End file.
